Apologies Taste Like Hazelnuts
by CrimsonCobwebs
Summary: When saying 'sorry' isn't enough. Oneshot, fluff, swearing. R&R plz


. A p o l o g i e s . T a s t e . L i k e . H a z e l n u t s .

Zidane Tribal didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him.

He was a rogue, a thief, a womaniser, and he'd readily admit all of it, if not through words than by shameless antics. He'd stolen from kings, queens, lords, ladies, executioners, artists, soldiers, and shoe-shiners. He'd been thrown out of palaces, courts, taverns and functions of every variety, and would woo any lady of any stature of any kind. He'd acquiesced to every type of humiliating dare thrown at him by drunken Tantalus brothers, had been arrested twice for indecent exposure, three times for indecent language in royal presence and seven times for indecency in general. He'd earned an unfavourable reputation (though some ladies might beg to differ) in both Lindblum and a scattering of surrounding villages. But did he care what the people thought? Not one bit.

…

Well, maybe there was an exception to the rule. An exception he'd never openly admit to. An exception that had gone gratuitously unnoticed by many, and those that had been perceptive enough to detect this anomaly hadn't bothered mentioning it because, well, it was nothing out of the ordinary, really.

Blank just had that effect on people.

Zidane would never outrageously impair his Tantalus brothers in any way. He never stole from them (what would be the point in that?) and their rare arguments never resulted in violence. Insults were common but lacked actual malevolence, and most of the thieves were too lazy to go out of their way to trick one other.

But of course, there were accidents. Like the time Zidane had helped Cinna make dinner and mistaken chillies for sweet peppers. Or the time Zidane used Baku's priceless world map as fire fuel. Or the time Zidane accidentally dropped Cinna's hammer and the handle broke off (the cause of many an hour of swearing and cursing).

Zidane was known to be stubborn, but he wasn't immodest, and would gladly offer an apology. But all too often the word 'sorry' was thrown about with as much definition as a rolled up sock, and everyone knew Zidane wasn't half as sorry as he made out to be. The impertinent grin and lack of enthusiasm to help recover the fruits of his accidents revealed his apologetic nature to be about as real as the gold jewellery sold on shady market corners.

But it was only with Blank that he seemed truly apologetic. If Blank happened to be the unfortunate recipient of a mishap Zidane would freeze up like a cat caught in the headlights of a Lindblum aircab, tail bristling slightly and eyes wide and wild with fright. He would then stammer, "O-oh, I'm s-sorry! I didn't mean it! Honest! Geez, I'm really, really sorry, Blank I swear it was an acciden-"

Whereupon Blank would say, "Oh shut up, you godsdamn faggot."

And Zidane would stutter into silence and fluster round the outskirts of the accident like an insect flitting round a carcass, until Blank would shoo him away with a few choice words, and then he'd disappear to his bunk or up into the rafters and sulk for a few hours.

He often wondered why it was Blank that made him feel so guilty. Why it was Blank that roused that tiny bit of shame resident in his soul. Because it wasn't like Blank ever got angry or violent, like the boss. Or like he whined for hours, like Cinna. Or became moody, like Marcus, or outright begrudging like Ruby. Blank just waved him away, coolest thing in the world, and promptly forgot about it.

And for some reason, Zidane couldn't stand that. Perhaps he needed a reaction to quell his guilt. Perhaps he liked the attention the accidents brought him. Or perhaps he actually cared about what Blank thought of him and he really, really didn't want him to think he was, like, uncool or something. At any rate, the tailed boy always found himself wanting to make up for whatever he'd done.

One day, while the blonde was drunkenly wrestling Marcus - pushing, shoving, provoking, laughing and bruising - he stumbled backward and stepped on something that went _crack_; the kind of _crack_ that resonates only when something's been broken. The boy looked down at the heel of his boot and uttered a tiny "Oops…" and was about to continue play fighting when he spotted the victim of today's accident.

Blank's comb.

Boss always said that accidents like that wouldn't happen if people just cleared up after themselves (the state of his room declared him the biggest hypocrite ever to walk Gaia) but they were thieves, and thieves weren't notoriously clean.

Anyhow, Zidane had broken Blank's only comb, and he cradled the shattered remnants in his hands as if it were a newborn babe.

"Um…"

This caught the attention of a certain redhead, who was sprawled nonchalantly on a tattered couch with newspaper on lap. He cocked a hazel eye in the blonde's direction and said: "What've you done, now?"

He held up the broken comb for inspection and as way of explanation. Another brittle tooth snapped off and hit the floor with a muted _click_.

Blank sighed, said nothing, and returned to reading the paper.

Zidane retreated to the bunk and sulked.

However, the next day, the blonde went to the market and sought another comb. He found a stall whose primary purpose was to provide wigs, hair ornaments and fixing sprays, and found a wooden comb edged with gold. It was probably a bit fancy for Blank's taste, the thief reckoned, but he stole it anyway and snuck it into Blank's personal chest that very night. Blank didn't say anything about it, though he definitely knew it was there because when Zidane checked it had a few stray strands of red snagged in its teeth.

The next accident claimed the life of a book.

Blank couldn't boast to be much of a reading fanatic, but on the rare occasion a book would grab his interest he'd be lost within its pages for days. He'd get a little tetchy if the boss disturbed him with an errand, and it took a good few shouts to snap him out of reading. The one he'd become engrossed with this time was some sort of crime novel. Zidane didn't know which. Zidane didn't particularly care because he didn't like reading (or possess the attention span for it). But it had become as much a part of Blank as his shadow; the blonde hadn't seen him without it for a good few days now.

And so, when the boys had been volunteered by Baku to wash up, the book had come along too, and was resting on an elevated shelf above the sink. Blank was washing and Zidane was drying, and as the latter reached up to put away a dry dish he nudged the book in such a way that it fell into the sink, plunging into the dirty water and vanishing beneath the suds. The redhead yelled and scooped it out, but by then the damage was done and the pages were a sopping mess of inky smudges.

Zidane yelped liked a kicked dog and the plate slipped from his fingers and smashed upon the floor. Blank's expression was unreadable as his gaze shifted from the ruined book to the smashed plate to Zidane's very sorry visage.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"

"Oh just shut up, you goddamn faggot."

Boss boxed Zidane's ears for smashing the plate, Blank was left to contemplate his ruined book and the tailed boy ascended to the rafters to sulk. But of course, it wasn't long before Blank found a tattered old crime novel (doubtlessly stolen from Lindblum Library) tucked beneath his pillow.

And so it went on: a cotton shirt in place of the one Zidane had ripped, a vial in place of the one Zidane had smashed, a bottle of whiskey in place of the one Zidane had drank (he wouldn't of done such a thing had he known it belonged to his redheaded brother; he'd thought it'd belonged to Marcus), and Blank never said a word.

Then one day, the thief approached Zidane with a trivial favour. The tailed boy was spreadeagled on the table in a half doze (he slept in the most peculiar places) but this didn't deter Blank, who thought the kid slept too much anyway.

"Yo," he barked. "Get up, man. You're coming with me to pick up some stuff."

Zidane groaned and opened a wary eye. "Naaww…"

"Don't be a lazy ass or you'll get fat like Cinna." ('Hey!' came the angry shriek from the kitchen.) "C'mon. We gotta get this stuff 'fore the market shuts."

"Get it yerself," came the response.

Blank cuffed him on the leg. "Don't fuck around, Zidane. Let's go!"

"Naaww…" He then made the mistake of rolling onto his side, whereupon Blank took advantage of the furry appendage curled on the tabletop and gave it a savage yank; a sure fire way to rouse Zidane from any lethargic mood. The boy gave a shriek and turned on his older brother. "Oi you fucking twat-face, how many times do I gotta tell ya to quit pulling my tail! It bloody hurts…"

"That's the idea," the redhead countered with a crafty smirk. "Get up. I can't carry all the stuff we need by myself. Do something for someone other than yourself, for a change."

There was no intentional malice behind the insult, and Blank didn't actually think Zidane selfish, but the kid seemed genuinely offended and pointed a finger into his face.

"Whad'dya mean by that? 'Do something for someone other than yourself'? What about all those things I replaced when I broke them, huh? I didn't have to go to all that trouble. And you know what? If anyone's a selfish bastard it's you! I spent a lot of time gettin' them items and I aint heard one word of thanks!"

Blank's expression hardened and there was weighty pause. A pause just long enough for Zidane to regret his brash words.

"Firstly," the redhead said in a quiet, steady voice, "I didn't ask you to get those things for me. What, you want me to trip over myself thanking you when it's your fault they needed replacing in the first place? And how much trouble did you really go to get all that stuff, Zidane? None of it was bought; it was all stolen. Now, I'm not one to criticise you stealing, hell, I would've been pissed if you'd wasted your money on me. But let's be honest, for once. It wasn't that difficult, was it? So you can wave you shitty produce in front of me all you want, but I aint buying it." He paused then, and crossed his arms. "Secondly, I want you to tell me something. Who were you really trying to make feel better when you got that stuff, hmm? Me? Or you?"

And with that, he left.

Alone on the table, Zidane thought very hard about what Blank had said, and knew he was right. He felt that terrible nip of guilt in his belly and decided, once again, to make it up to Blank. But this time he'd do things a little differently. He'd prove to Blank that he could take the time and effort to meaningfully express an apology.

After much thinking, he decided to show he meant business by exploiting one of his own weaknesses (one everyone knew he had) and taking advantage of one of Blank's weaknesses (one very few people knew he had.)

It took him all afternoon to complete. He'd never attempted anything so intricate and his first attempt ended up out the window (it smelt too bad to keep in the dustbin, Cinna said) and when he'd finished he decided never to put so much effort into one thing ever again. He was exhausted.

When Blank got home, laden down with paper bags involuntary spewing groceries all over the floor, he breezed through the main room and into the kitchen with such frostiness it could've contended Shiva herself. The tailed boy listened from atop the bunk as the redhead began dumping the bags. There was crackling and rustling and the occasional ripping, and then utter silence.

In the kitchen, something had caught Blank's eye. Frozen in front of a cupboard with groceries in hand, he stared down at the atrocity that, in another lifetime, might have been called a cake. Hazelnut cake, to be exact. His favourite. It was a misshapen mess of brown sponge, and on its top the words 'I'm sorry' had been painstakingly scribed in icing.

Blank dropped the loaf of bread and clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the explosion of laughter bubbling up his throat. The thought of Zidane baking was beyond hilarious, because this was Zidane, _Zidane_! The kid that couldn't cook beans without burning them to shrivelled raisins. And to think he'd gone to all this trouble…

Outside, the cook in question fidgeted as nervously as a criminal waiting to hear his verdict from a jury. Then Blank emerged from the kitchen and approached the bunk, his face utterly expressionless.

They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Blank said, "Gods, Zidane, you are _such_ a faggot."

And perhaps Zidane might've been a little upset, if the crumbs on Blank's chin hadn't testified his forgiveness.

* * *

Oh god, KILL ME!! So fluffy it makes me sick!! It makes me want to vomit hazelnut cake all over the floor!! But. I. Just. Couldn't… Resist… :dies: Well, at least it makes a change from all that zidag fluff I've been writing.

So is this fic slash? :shrug: I never intended it to be, though as I said, squint hard enough and I suppose it could be. I just love Blank :hug: Review if it brought you fluff-filled joy!


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